La Nuit
by nlizzette7
Summary: "There aren't any words to describe what you are to me." / Four drabbles written for Limoversary, 2013.


**A/N: **In honor of Limoversary, I've finished a few old drabbles I've been sitting on, all prompted by single words, and all with glimpses of Chuck and Blair's limo love. Thank you all for celebrating with me. Happy Limoversary! xo, N

* * *

**Celebration**

They exchange vows again hours after a makeshift ceremony is held beneath the arches of their kingdom, hours after they get tipsy off expensive champagne, hours after he begins to toy with the zipper of her wedding dress, pulling it down to the center of her back, then pressing the cold metal up against the nape of her neck again.

Blair blinks at him, lusty eyes set on his lips, the taste of rose candies on her tongue, and he looks at her just as he did the first time, wanting yet waiting.

As Dan Humphrey explains the complexities of his multi personality disorder to the rest of the table, Chuck pulls pins away from Blair's up-do, watches each curl hit her shoulder in easy synchronicity.

"Do you know what I appreciate about marriage?"

Blair rolls her eyes, one small hand on his knee to keep her balanced. "You get to wear the white suit."

Chuck blinks at yet another gentle reminder that he truly just exchanged rings with his soul mate.

"Yes," he agrees, covering her hand with his. "But also…" He trails off, traces the jewels of her headband tiara. "Consummation."

Blair turns a bit pink, and her hand slides further up his leg. "As if we haven't consummated this _thing _between us over and over again." The tips of her fingers reach his thigh as the last minute violinists hit their crescendo. "On every surface of the city."

"Starting with the limo."

"Starting," Blair repeats with a smile. "With the limo."

"This _thing _between us?" Chuck asks her, amused by her choice of wording.

"There are no words," Blair begins with a smirk, then grows somber like the joke weighs heavier than she originally intended. She turns her hand so that their palms lay flat against each other – rings pressing marks into each other's skin. "There aren't any words to describe what you are to me."

Chuck cups her cheek, and across the table, Eleanor catches the sight through her peripheral vision, a man gathering porcelain in his palms. When he kisses her, he pays attention, whispers broken sentences against her skin, brushes his thumb across her lips when they part.

The mother of the bride coughs, glances away, like it's something too intimate for the rest of the world.

* * *

**Midnight**

When Blair wakes, the air even _smells_ like Christmas – like sugar cookies and holly, like stolen kisses and grown-up dreams – and she darts up in bed, yanks the eye mask from her face amidst her excitement. Diamonds glitter on her ring finger when her hand slides across the bed, and she reaches –

"Chuck, wake up, it's…"

The sheets are flat and rumpled under her fingertips. Her husband, on the most important night of the entire year, is gone. Blair frowns, lifts her hand away like touching the spot burns her, settles back against her side of the bed to calm herself down. Outside, it's snowing as if the city was wrapped in a globe, and Blair watches it all on her own.

She tiptoes to their living room, the chateau away from France that they bought together, right in the middle of their concrete dream. Blair wraps her robe over her nightgown, sighs as she rakes her fingers through her curls. Worry quakes and catches in her throat because after all this time, he _can't _just –

"Blair."

She startles, squints her eyes to where they'd had the beautiful tree set up, intricate ornaments painted with gold and lavender along the pine leaves. Chuck is standing by it, spiked eggnog in one hand, another full glass set out on the table, and he shoots her a sheepish smile, like a child whose hand has just been caught in a cookie jar.

"Chuck, you're here."

He raises a brow. "Of course I'm here."

Blair parts her lips to say something, then glances to where he's standing - suspiciously close to the piles of silver wrapping and perfectly knotted bows beneath the tree. Blair gasps, nearly stamps her foot. "Bass, you're stealing Christmas."

"What," Chuck begins, bemused, "the hell are you talking about, Blair?"

"You're the Grinch," Blair hisses, shoving him away from the tree. "In _purple_."

He laughs, throws his hands up in mock innocence. "I didn't realize that you were policing the holiday." Chuck frowns when she tries to hit him again, folds her hand into his, guides her over to sit on the carpet by the tree, two children who never got to be children at all. "I saw the tree and got curious…" He seems shy now, an embarrassed version of the man Blair knows so well. "I wanted to know what the hype about these family holidays is all about. I wanted to know if some of these were for me."

"Chuck," Blair breathes, her heart warming at the sight of Chuck attempting to appear unaffected, though red heat is already creeping along the back of his neck. "Chuck, it's all for you."

And though Blair is excited about her own presents, a box of jewel encrusted headbands, a shower of macaroons, stockings that make her giggle, then flush in surprise – though she cries when he gives her a charm bracelet of intertwined, uncaged birds, matching the Erickson Beamon necklace exactly – Blair's favorite part of Christmas is curling against the side of their chaise, nibbling on macaroons, barely watching Audrey on the television screen as Chuck tears open presents the way he never got to as a little boy.

He grabs onto new bow-ties, bound sheet music for his piano-playing as if he'd never owned anything better. And when he settles on the last wrapped gift, Blair's breath catches when he reveals the hefty box, the label reading _Graco _inside. He glances up at her in question, raises a brow at what he thinks it is.

"A new addition to the limo," Blair whispers, clutching at her own stomach. "A car seat."

* * *

**Roses**

A year after one hazily clear limo night, Blair tries to bite him back by dating a boy that no one remembers now. In the madness of senior year, the poor suitor was an easy pawn, a perfect gentleman that she paraded around for exactly one week, her books in his hands, his coat over her shoulders – all purposefully done in Chuck Bass's line of vision.

The boy brings her a bouquet of roses one day, and Blair makes a big show of it, carries them around from class to class – minions swooning, girls biting their tongues in jealousy. She doesn't see Chuck, but she knows that he's there, a constant presence, a reminder of what will always be permanent.

"I know what you're doing," Serena accuses after third period.

"Good," Blair says pointedly, subtly glancing over her shoulder in hopes of catching the squares of navy and scarlet, the pointed pattern of a certain signature scarf. "I know what I'm doing, too."

But the day's end is a disappointment. There are no heated conversations by her locker, no confrontations in the janitor's closet that will lead to his hands on her curves – pressing and rememorizing like she so desperately craves. The new boy follows her out onto the courtyard afterschool, and Blair frowns, draws in a long sigh, insists that she'll prefer the walk.

There aren't any limos crawling at her pace outside.

Blair flushes in slight defeat, lets the bouquet hang from one swinging arm as her heels tap along the pavement. In one hand, she scrolls through an array of meaningless text messages, catching her reflection on the screen – the prettily pinned curls and perfectly glossed lips done specially today for nothing.

A throat clears, gravel crunches under tires.

And then she gasps, catches a line of sleek black, a rolled-down window that forces an uncomfortable sprint upon her heartbeat.

"Waldorf."

The name is hers, but the word belongs to him. No one else can make it sound that sweet – no other person can make it sound as sinful.

"Chuck," Blair says, stopping on the corner, eyeing his handsome features, the car door their only barrier now. The car door, Blair thinks – _and three words with singular syllables_. "Taking a day off from stalking me?"

Chuck cocks his head to the side, licks his bottom lip. "It's a full-time job." He smirks, glances down at the cluster of roses in her hand. "For me?"

"Funny," Blair replies with a sigh, makes a big show about checking the invisible watch on her wrist. "As if you don't already know."

"Right," Chuck says, "your replacement pup fetched you flowers." He smiles, leans forward, and she swallows, grounds her feet, bites away the quiver on her bottom lip. "Haven't trained him to say peony yet?"

"These are beautiful."

"Those are _average_."

There's a momentary stand-off, a stare as equally hot on both sides. It's unclear who weakens first – whether it's Chuck who motions for the backseat to be unlocked, whether it's Blair who pulls herself forward and grasps the door handle without an ounce of hesitation.

"Are you going to let me in?"

"I accept payments in purrs."

They promise each other just one kiss. And it's a kiss that last twenty-three minutes – because neither one of them ever learned how to fight fair. He bends her backward, raining kisses down her neck and into the crevice that her uniform collar creates. He presses her against the leather seat, waits for the telltale whimper to escape her throat, eyes closed, pulse racing.

"The flowers are all wrong," she whispers before the spell is broken.

Chuck crushes roses under his palm.

* * *

**Drunk**

"You bastard," Blair murmurs under her breath, taking in the sight of her boyfriend, slumped against the foyer of the Waldorf penthouse, a disgusting splatter of unidentifiable stains on his shirt collar. He's passed out, a pant leg ripped as he murmurs a slew of incoherent sentences.

"Told her I loved her…hates purple…Humphrey's hair…"

The honeymoon phase of their relationship, the limo rides around Tiffany's in the summer, the dinners where she got to wear her pearls and he wore his finest suits – always ending in chocolate desserts and marks on her back from when he'd make love to her against brick alley walls – all of that had gotten comfortable.

She supposes that even Bonnie had to pick up Clyde's scraps, had to wipe at his chin as she's doing to Chuck right now.

"Oh, Bass," Blair whispers, grateful that the penthouse belongs to them this summer, that Eleanor isn't bearing witness to how deeply her daughter is able to fall in love. He's her weakness, this boy, and her anger fizzles as Chuck groans against her palm. "What happened to you?"

"Drunk," he states rather incoherently, making an attempt to sit up straight. Blair sets her clutch and coat aside, pulls at his arms as she once had when they were fourteen and she'd pretended she was only cleaning up after his messes because she felt bad for him. (That was never quite it.)

"Yes," Blair scowls. "Drunk."

Chuck hears her voice and tries to break through the haze of intoxication, and then she feels him tense up, yank his arm from her grasp. "Don't _touch _me."

The rage wells up inside of her, and her fingers curl into tight fists on her bent knees. "_What _did you just say to – "

"I have a girlfriend," he insists, trying then failing to stand up. "Blair Waldorf," he explains, as if this is entirely new information, and Blair watches him, amused as he stumbles away and into the Waldorf sitting room.

"I'm sorry," Blair smirks, "I had no idea."

Chuck makes it to her chaise on his own, slumps down against plush cushions, digs his face into a pink pillow. She's quiet when she walks over to where he's dozing off, and she pulls the jacket from his shoulders, toys with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I'm glad you came here this time," Blair says quietly.

And Chuck manages to answer, half-asleep, "The limo always takes me home."


End file.
